Morrighan's Daughter
by BittersweetAnne
Summary: Blood is already flowing, but the battle hasn't started yet--Hermione's warrior status stirs ancient magic that leads to the Final Battle, but at what cost? Why is Draco instrumental to curing her? M for graphic themes/violence/language/ and later smut.
1. Night Battle

_**1: Night Battle**_

Blood was already flowing, but the battle hadn't started yet. It was hers. It was a familiar darkness, her moonblood, but it was still disquieting. She had never before been one for superstition or anything that couldn't be proved academically, but over the course of the last year—of her first continual involvement in this War—she had come to respect her own gut intuitions. Feelings mostly, not viable, but she learned to read the air around her and feel out things. As much as she hated the word, she took the sight of her own dark red, almost black, blood on the sheets this morning as a bad **omen**. Dusk was falling now, the sky a brilliant fire orange, and everyone was getting ready. She was dressing for battle. Alone in the room she occupied in Grimmauld Place, she was standing before her wardrobe after her bath, shivering in the chill musty air. A single candle was burning, the only light in the room floating a few inches above her head. She pulled out what she'd need: black pants she'd bought from a Muggle military store with ample pockets and straps to hold whatever she might need, a skin tight black sleeveless sports shirt, her heavy canvas black cloak, black combat boots that came to just below her knees, and a large black piece of stretchy fabric she had folded on a shelf. She pulled on the pants to hold off some of the chill and sighed. The battle tonight would be definitive; she could feel it, the enormity of the entire War seemingly weighing down tonight. She found herself concentrating hard on removing all of the silver rings she'd taken to wearing off her fingers—none were ornate, just several silver bands that accentuated her slim fingers—and putting them in a small box on the wardrobe shelf. She then pulled a few stubborn errant curls away from her face and braided her hair back to keep it out of the way—these days if it was free, she could sit on it—added to the fact that it made her entirely too recognizable, too easily targeted. She braided it as tightly as she could manage, pulling it over her shoulder to get it all. Two curls refused to stay put, softly falling from in front of her ears and framing her face, but she pulled the large square of fabric off her bed and deftly wrapped it around her head to conceal her hair entirely twisting it into a large spiraling knot at the back of her head. She checked her reflection to make sure that it would stay put and then pulled the shirt on in the near darkness. She would forego a bra tonight, not bothering with such trifles. She pulled a canvas holster out of the biggest pants pocket and strapped it to her upper thigh, sliding her Vinewood wand into it. On the other thigh the pants had a short strap, onto which she clipped a large knife. She'd bought that recently too, it was a Muggle knife, made with a spring, so the folded blade shot out to use, no fiddling with locks or sheaths. She found herself cracking her knuckles, a nervous habit, as she tried to think of anything else she might need. She could not bring any healing potions, the glass clinking in her pockets was too big of a risk; all those she might heal would have to be taken care of after the battle or to the best of her ability without potions. She rubbed her bare arms, hesitating over the large scar swiping across her right bicep, waiting, apprehensive. Finally, she pulled her cloak off her bed, weighing it in her hands for a moment before swirling it over her head and around her shoulders. Pulling the hood over her head and allowing herself one final sigh, she allowed determination to fill her mind and headed downstairs.

The Order, she among them, Apparated into the woods, someone had been to their destination before and cast a silencing spell on it, so no distinctive pops were heard to give away their arrival. They slipped through the tress, signaling to each other directions, and approached the edge of the trees looking out into a wide meadow and the back of the formidable house that stood in its center. In the black of this moonless night, Malfoy Manor looked even larger, a blackened edifice blocking out the starlight. Lights could be seen from within on the lowest floor, and the occasional flashes of bodies in front of the windows. This was an ambush, and it appeared that the Deatheaters were celebrating their last killing spree. Faint, but persistent music could be heard lightly on the wind—a waltz. Hermione snorted quietly to herself: _Leave it to them to celebrate death, suffering, and destruction with something so arrogant—so indicative of high society_. She found herself growling deep in her chest, an angry reaction she generally tried to stifle. Moody leaned heavily against a tree to her left and his magic eye swiveled in her direction as if assessing her anger, then away, after finding it satisfactory. He leaned over and whispered to her in his graveled tone,

"Do you remember what I told you about anger and pain girl?"

She smirked, and when mixed with the expression of her determination and anger, it looked positively lethal. Then she spoke words that he'd beaten into her head to prepare her for battle with a certain amount of reverence,

"Pain is your friend. It will keep you focused; it will keep you awake; it will keep you angry; it will keep you fighting, and most of all—pain will remind you that you're **not dead yet**."

He nodded in approval as the last three words hissed and seethed from between her bared teeth. She could faintly smell her own blood on the air and knew that soon, the smell would dominate her senses. When not on the battlefield, she served a Mediwitch for the entire Order, so it would not end for her when the battle did. Her battles were always longer; having to deal with the pain and blood for much longer than most of the others. Moody stood up then, they all sensed his movement and she suddenly felt unerringly calm—the perfect silence of the moment overtaking all her nerves as her mind completely cleared to that task ahead—and Moody signaled them forward. She could only think of herself as a true lioness then, slinking silently through the tall meadow grass, unseen by her prey. She always regretted this sensation later, but her Zen in the heat of battle lead her to be unscrupulous, unflinching—powerful in the face of great danger. They all halted and ducked down into the grass simultaneously a hundred yards from the Manor, and they all heard Moody's command, ordered like steel through the air:

"If you don't want to, don't—but if they aim to kill, **aim back**."

He left it up to them, the choice to kill, individually. She had never done it before on purpose, never used the Killing Curse, but she'd killed in battle using other spells. She tried not to think about it after battles, but right now, in her steel calm, the fact didn't bother her at all. She was ready. Moody signaled, and with Hermione, Ron, Fred and George—with black hats covering their distinctive hair—and Harry moved towards the Manor in the dark. It was nearly one in the morning, and they found themselves climbing up the façade using magic, unlocking tall windows on the second floor, but not yet entering. They were waiting. The rest of the Order was surrounding the house, still a distance away. The plan was simultaneous entry, by surprise, the Order below shattering all the windows on the ground floor and them above, infiltrating within and using the advantage of height to drive any remaining Deatheaters down and out of the Manor into the waiting Order members. Hermione listened carefully and she heard Moody's grunt, and Tonks' phoenix call—the signal. She pulled open the window nearest her and pulled herself inside to the sound of fifty shouts of '_**Bombarda!**_' and the cacophony of shattering glass.

She scanned the room she'd pulled into quickly, a bedroom—books and parchments scattered across the desk in the corner and the bed unmade—but empty. She moved silently out to the door, and out into the hallway, listening to the rising shouts and sounds of battle below. A tiny creak to her left alerted her that Fred and George were next to her, and then Ron and Harry slid out of doors further down the hall. They all stepped across the hall and quickly checked the opposite rooms, but those were empty too. Everyone was downstairs, in the thick of the fight. They pulled together, hoods up, and walked confidently past the portraits of Malfoy ancestors and relatives that thought they were fellow Deatheaters, telling them to hurry downstairs and protect the house. It made her chuckle; her plan for their attire had worked wonderfully if it was fooling the portraits. They took a small back set of stairs into the kitchens and spotted a crowd of seven or eight House Elves shuddering in a corner under a counter. Just in case they attacked, Ron whispered '_**Petrificus Totalus! Incarcerous!**_" magically binding their stiff bodies with ropes. Hermione though vaguely that they looked like small parcels one might send in the post and allowed herself a short, quiet, bark of laughter. They split up then, Ron and Harry going through the door to the dining room and she and the twins into the Parlor. She heard a roar of anger, distinctly Harry's but she had no idea what was going on. Anyway, she didn't have time to worry about it. As soon as they swept into the parlor, she found herself facing off against Bellatrix Lestrange. The twins were back-to-back, working together as she could see them in her periphery, taking on Rabastan Lestrange and Crabbe Sr. She was almost a foot shorter, but she found herself seemingly looking down at Bellatrix and her walnut wand. Hermione found herself feeling more powerful than ever before, she felt taller, and omnipresent. It was odd, she could hear her voice blasting Bellatrix with hexes and blocking, her '_**Protego!**_' short and calculated on the air, but it was if she was outside her own body. She could sense everyone around, even those in other rooms or fighting outside. This was a new gut feeling, something she'd never experienced before, but another sensation she'd chalk up later to 'omen-dom.' Moody was outside, facing off against Mulciber and Lucius, Harry was slamming Wormtail's head into the dining room wall then locking him in a Full-Body Bind and moving on to shooting three '_**Sectumsempra!**_' at Dolohov, She felt George's '_**Stupefy!**_' whizzing by her right ear and into Crabbe, Lupin aligning himself with Tonks against Rodolphus Lestrange in the ballroom down the hall, Shackelbolt shouting a '_**Avada Kedavra!**_' at Yaxley. She could sense someone else in the ballroom shooting out hexes, but she was paying more attention to dodging Bellatrix's powerful '_**Crucio!**_' and backing the feral woman out of the small room. Hermione, battle-minded, wanted more room to fight, snarling out

"Bitch. _**Impedimentia! Serpensortia! Oppugrro!**_ Attack!"

The eight-foot pythons Hermione had conjured shot towards Bellatrix and she turned and ran—where Hermione wanted her to head—into the ballroom. There was a body on the ground, blue robes and blond hair spread out, smeared with blood—Narcissa Malfoy, she recognized immediately—and Draco was leaning protectively over her, firing curses and hexes willy-nilly around the room in rage and grief. She could see tears running down his face, _Narcissa's dead then_, she thought. She hit Bellatrix with a '_**Petrificus Totalus!**_' and pulled out her knife, slicing a deep crescent line from her exposed collarbone down and around her bicep to the back of her arm as Bellatrix stared murder at her. She backed off—and to the shock of Moody who had just chased Lucius into the room; she took the Full-Body Bind off of Bellatrix who hesitated for a moment to look the blood Hermione had drawn. Hermione smirked again, looking positively murderous in her battle rage, before snarling at her opponent,

"Consider it me returning the favor, Bella," and before Bellatrix could raise her wand again, "_**Duro! Bombarda!**_"

A crashing sound and explosion of dust and rock shards filled the room for a moment, and Hermione stood there, smiling. She had won; returning the wound Bella had given her a year before then turning her to stone and blowing her up. It was satisfying. Hermione then turned on Thorfinn Rowle who had been shooting the occasional spell at the twins as they finally took down Rabastan with a Body Bind. She hit him with a stream of curses,

"_**Confundo! Incarcerous!**_" He was soon lying on the floor bound in rope, singing about daisies. She found herself chuckling again. She was having a moment of omens again, feeling the battle turning in their favor, Molly taking down Alecto Carrow outside, Bill's '_**Avada Kedavra!**_' striking Fenrir Greyback square in the chest, Arthur putting both Nott and McNair into a Full-Body Bind in one sweep. Two things happened at once: when Lucius hit Moody with a '_**Sectumsempra!**_' Draco was still making an awful keening sound, somewhere between a sob and a rage-filled scream, when he stood and pointed his wand at Mulciber who had just clambered in through the window. He was hit with Draco's '_**Crucio!**_' and writhed on the floor in pain, howling. Draco hit him with it again, and when Mulciber got up he charged Draco, like a wrathful bull, tackling him to the floor with a definite crunch. Draco hit Mulciber with an '_**Impedimentia!**_' but it didn't stop the older man from grabbing Draco roughly by the shoulder and stomping down onto Draco's parted legs, twisting around the knee, shattering his shin so that the pointed bones snapped out from beneath his skin and spattered blood across the floor. Hermione watched him fall to the ground, and heard the bass of a growl started in his chest that transformed into a roar that filled the room and everyone paused as the walls shook. A wave of lime green shot out like a tidal wave from Draco's skin and suddenly Lucius and Mulciber both dropped to the floor—cold and lifeless. Draco collapsed then, unconscious, and Moody slumped against a table. Hermione ran first to Moody, casting a quick '_**Portus!**_' on a wineglass from the table and sending him back to Grimmauld Place. Her time for fighting was over; it was time for her to start making rounds as Mediwitch. She ran back into the dining room and parlor, shoving Portkeys to Azkaban into the hands of bound Deatheaters, and then back out into the ballroom. She called out a window, rushing out into the dark to round up more Deatheaters and turning Arthur's discarded hat into a Portkey for the wounded Order members outside. She ran back into the house, and immediately found herself rushing to Draco of all people, pulling him away from the lifeless and bloodies body of his mother, when Ron and Harry approached.

"Mione, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

She ignored this, tucking Draco's fallen wand into the extra slot on her thigh holster and searched for something to use to transport his unconscious body back to Headquarters so she could heal him. Harry stood stone-faced while Ron went on a rampage, but she ignored them both and picked up a bit of rock from the floor and as she closed Draco's hand around it, he disappeared. She disapparated back to Grimmauld before she had to hear another word. She ran to the parlor and transfigured all the chairs and settees into beds with curtains around them and levitated everyone to a specific bed, Draco's against the far wall, closest to the west-facing windows, Moody on the other end of the room, closest to the fireplace. She worked quickly on the smaller injuries and then sent those healed back to help cleanup after the battle. She tried her best to stop the bleeding from Moody's chest and arms, but she couldn't make the slashed cuts stay closed, and Moody woke for a moment to verbally cuff her,

"Leave it girl. It's fine," as she started to stutter, trying to hold back tears of frustration and desperation to heal her mentor, he softened, "Hermione Granger, don't you dare weep over an old grizzly like me. I will die, and that's fine. I saw Lucius Malfoy die, that's good enough for me. Anyway, there's nothing anyone, not just you, can do about these. He hit me with three of them. Leave it. Bring me some Earl Grey, will you?"

She acquiesced, conjuring a teacup, and summoning the kettle of tea from the stove. He sipped it for a moment before his breathing became labored; lay back against his pillow and sheets soaked with blood, and sighed. It was last sound Moody would make—a contented sigh. She nodded, dosing a few who admitted to needing a restful night's sleep with Dreamless Sleep potions and Oblivious Unctions. When they were all asleep, she set herself about the work of cleaning up the dead for burial, Moody first, then apparated back to the Manor to deal with the dead Deatheaters. She used Portkeys to send all the bodies to the Ministry morgue, where their families could claim the bodies and have them buried of their own accord. She found herself turning to Narcissa's body last, levitating the once beautiful woman up from the floor and cleaning off all the blood with a '_**Scourgify!**_" before placing her back on the floor. Hermione knew—she just **knew**—that she had been killed at least an hour before they had attacked, so she felt herself crying as she looked down at the wounds on this woman. Narcissa was covered in bruises, cuts on her upper arms and thighs, her robes torn away from her body in places, and a large slash across her belly. Hermione summoned a different set of robes that hovered down the stairs into her hands, and performed a switching spell, so that Narcissa was covered up and looked less destroyed. She did not cast any glamour charms to cover the bruised face, but at least this woman would go to the Ministry morgue with some dignity. And for some reason, she though of Draco, and how it would be easier to collect his mother's body if she did not look as she had. She cast a '_**Portus!**_' on the tiny silver and onyx pendant already around Narcissa's neck and when she dropped it back onto the cold flesh, it disappeared. She freed the House Elves from the kitchen, told them Draco still lived and would be back soon, and hinted that they should clean up the house. When she arrived back at Grimmauld Place, Draco was still unconscious, but knowing that he couldn't know where he was when he awoke, she made a few precautions and then headed to her room, intent on sleep. Ron caught her by the stair and tried to start arguing, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand and moved heavily up the stairs. She took off her battle gear, slipped into a long silver cotton dress she slept in, and collapsed on top of the blankets, asleep immediately.


	2. Breaking and Building

_**2: Breaking and Building**_

When she awoke the next day, it was a little past noon, and she rushed downstairs to check her patients, not bothering to change out of her slept-in dress, just strapping a wand holster to her forearm. She gave another dose of Skele-Gro to Dean Thomas, who had badly broken his leg, and moved on. She was rolling her wrist and listening to the clicking—it had never healed correctly after Bellatrix broke it—as she approached Draco's bed. She had stopped the bleeding quickly last night, but had not done anything to heal the broken bones. He was waking up at present, and tried to sit up as she moved closer to inspect the damage. He was still in his filthy clothes, stains of blood on his shirt that she assumed was Narcissa's. He spoke harshly, turning his head towards her, a black blindfold firmly on his head,

"Who are you? And why the fuck can't I see?"

"You're blindfolded Malfoy. Drink this, it'll stop the pain."

He didn't seem to recognize her quiet morning voice, because he held his mouth in a firm line, not trusting her. She sighed heavily and spoke more assuredly, hoping that he would recognize her voice,

"You know who I am, and you're blindfolded because you're at the Order of Phoenix Headquarters. Now, I can help you sit up to drink this, or you can do it yourself and risk more pain. But I have to re-break this to set it properly, and it's going to hurt."

He hissed and pointedly dropped his hands to his side and shoved himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth against the pain, but not crying out. She saw, but didn't comment on, the small wet spot on the blindfold. He would be in an incredible amount of pain; he was entitled to tears if he was too stubborn to scream. She held out the potion in one hand and grabbed his other hand to guide him to it, ignoring the fact that he recoiled from her touch. When he felt the cup in his hand he relaxed, and drank it silently, making a face at the taste.

"So Granger, why am I here?"

"I brought you here so I could heal you. Mulciber made a bloody mess of your leg."

He laughed, a bark-like incredulous sound loud enough to shatter the tense quiet in the room, and smirked before he spoke again,

"You still didn't answer me question. **Why?**"

"Because you needed to be here."

She refused to get into a verbal sparring match with him when she had work to do. She would no more explain her reasons to him than she would to Ron. She took out her wand and slid it up his bloodied pant leg, avoiding the protruding bone, and whispered '_**Diffindo!**_' to cut it open. He must have felt the change as she pulled back the wet sticky fabric, and his face tightened at the small 'ugh' that escaped her mouth.

"That bad, is it?"

"You can't feel it?"

"Not anymore, no."

"Good." She pushed up her long loose sleeves and reached her hand forward, cleaning the wound out with a quick spell before setting her wand next to his leg, and speaking to him in a clipped business tone,

"Tell me if you feel anything. Don't try to be stubborn about pain, just tell me."

"Fine Granger. Just do whatever it is you have to and get it over with."

She pulled back the flap of mangled, swollen skin from his bone and poked around for a bit. His leg was quirked at an angle, partially pulled up and twisting off in the wrong direction. She looked closer to see where the bones were so she knew where to break the bone to get it back inside him and then it could heal properly with spells. She picked up her wand and made a small incision, letting loose the blood that had swollen near the surface. When the swelling went down she could see better and she knew the bone would fall into place correctly when she went to work. She gave a tiny touch to the back of his hand to get his attention, he did not recoil,

"I'll be right back; I need to get everything ready before I start this."

She walked into the kitchen and gathered another bottle of Skele-Gro, gauze, a tube of burn paste, a tube of a skin salve that would ensure no scars formed, and then turned to two men sitting at the table: Snape and Lupin. She knew her expression looked grim and her voice was cold and hard when she addressed Snape,

"I'm going to need your help with your Godson, you too Lupin."

She had long ago gotten over prefacing their names with 'Professor,' war had changed her a lot. They nodded and followed her into the other room, looking at Draco, sitting up apprehensively in the bed, blindfolded, and gripping the sheets with white knuckles.

"Hold him down. Serevus, you get his shoulders. Remus, I need you to hold his feet in case he kicks."

Draco spoke, confused, his face pointed up hopefully in the direction of his Godfather,

"Severus?"

"Yes Draco, I'm here. Granger's going to heal you. I'm sure she's already explained. Just try your best to stay still. You could worsen your condition if you struggle too much."

Draco's grip on the sheets got even tighter, his hands taking on a blue tinge as the blood was squeezed out of them and he went stiff as a board, and Hermione took this as preparedness. She put her wand tip against the bone jutting out of his torn muscle and skin and broke it magically without words. Draco growled viciously, more wetness gathering on the blindfold, but no other sound escaped him. She moved the bone back into its proper place, moving muscle and veins out of the way as she worked. Then she moved all that tissue back in place and healed the rips in it. She then moved the skin back over the whole mess, and magically stitched it shut. She aimed an '_**Episkey!**_' at his leg to properly align the bones and coax them into healing, then gently applied the scar tincture to the faint pink lines on his skin, and they disappeared entirely. Severus and Remus released him and stepped away, allowing her past to give Draco a small cup of Skele-Gro to speed up the healing process. She went upstairs and pulled a set of old trousers and white button down shirt out of Regulus' wardrobe and brought them back down. She switched them onto Draco's body and threw his bloodied, cut up clothes in the bin for used medical supplies that she would '_**Evanesco!**_' later. She approached him again, hesitantly, and then spoke quietly her sorrow showing through for just a moment,

"All-All the bodies have been removed and the Manor is being repaired by your Elves. You can go retrieve your parents from the Ministry morgue as soon as you're healed and bury them as you like."

"Tell them to burn my father for all I care Granger…Who went to the Manor to gather the bodies and send them to the morgue?"

"I did."

He held back a sob in his chest, she could feel it in the air, his tight hold on his emotions and the flood behind that control, breaking out just a little when he next spoke,

"My-my mother?"

"I cleaned her up and changed her robes like I just did yours before I sent her along."

He was soaking the blindfold, tears now running down his face despite the absorbent fabric. It was bothering him; she could feel him pushing away his grief in favor of irritation and watched as he reached up to pull the offensive thing off his head.

"Fuck!"

He wrenched his hands away from it, pink burned flesh and a few small blisters forming on his palms and the inside of his fingers.

"I put a jinx on it in case you tried to remove it. If you'd like a new one," she was going to say 'dry,' but didn't want to insult him, "…to be more comfortable, I can get you one."

"Just take the fucking thing **off**. I don't care where I am. And you don't have to worry about me seeing anything or telling them. I never was one of them and I'm **never **going to become one!"

He pulled up his left sleeve for emphasis, revealing clean, white skin. She looked to Snape still hovering nearby, asking with her eyes if this was alright. He nodded. She reached forward and put her head behind Draco's head and picked it up, so she could untie the knot. She slid it off, and handed Draco a handkerchief with a muttered 'to clean your face,' again not addressing his tears. Then she took out the burn salve for his hands, knowing that he would touch the blindfold eventually. She thought absently about his mother's death as she applied it to the burns. When Deatheaters had killed her parents she hadn't gotten out of bed for over a week, crying the whole time and screaming at everyone that came to comfort her. Their pity had felt insincere at the time, contrived, patronizing. She didn't want to patronize him either; she knew how infuriating it could be. It was Moody who'd pulled her out of it, telling her to use that pain and anger to be strong. Teaching her to fight, to be brutal when she needed to be, and teaching her to channel her efforts in one direction at a time. It was Moody that brought her the first meal she'd actually eaten in two weeks, and forced her to eat. Moody forced her to start training, to hit back, to strike, to be a warrior. She left the room for a moment, controlling her train of thought to avoid tears, and returned with parchment and quill for Draco.

"If you wish to inform the Ministry of your decision about your father's burial, use this, call me, and I'll send it off with an owl."

He nodded stiffly, and picked it up immediately. He scribbled furiously, his script looking angry, but still nearly perfect, and then folded it up tightly. She conjured a small blob of wax at the closing point and he overturned his hand to push in his family signet, and then handed it rigidly back to her. When he looked back up at her, his face seemed to falter for a moment as he noticed something for the first time and he spoke in a voice so quiet and full of amazement,

"Merlin, Granger, you've got your nose **pierced**!"

She did, but she often forgot the tiny silver ring was even there. She'd gotten it at Moody's insistence—that she do something to commemorate the anniversary of her parents' deaths that intrinsically involved pain—to complete her training. She rolled her eyes at him and left the room to send off his letter. She spent the rest of the day in the kitchen with Molly and checking on her other patients. Harry and Company had all holed up in the dining room making plans for the Final Battle. Voldemort had been in the dining room in Malfoy Manor but had apparated away at the sight of Harry—hence Harry's angry bellow that night. She ignored this process, knowing that the Final Battle would be between just Harry and Voldemort and not wanting to address the possibility that her best friend may die, or worse, fail to destroy the Dark Lord **and** die. She shuddered.

An hour or so later she wandered in to check on Malfoy and found him feverish and sweating, she went back to work. She forced a quick fever-reducing potion into his hands, which he drank and pulled back the blankets to check his leg, but it was fine. The fresh shirt she'd put on his however, was bloodied.

"**Shit**."

She hissed out her words, frustrated with herself that she hadn't checked the rest of him for injury, assuming it was just his leg. She pulled it open forcibly; buttons popped off and cascaded to the floor heedlessly, to find his wounds. Two punctures, small and not too deep, that were simply topped with blood, just barely bleeding under his collarbone by both shoulders and a virgin's crescent carved into the center of his chest. She looked at them, surprised for a moment before leaning in with her wand to seal the skin shut and applied the scar tincture again. The pink lines were persistent however, and did not fade. She knew that these wounds had been magically inflicted, but not how or by whom.

"Who did this to you? I know Mulciber fucked up your leg," he looked shocked at hearing her curse but she continued, "but these are magic wounds, won't close, and won't heal all the way."

"I woke up with them yesterday morning. I don't know if someone gave them to me, but my mother," his breath hitched in his throat, "…attending to me in the morning, did the same thing you just did. They were open and bleeding again by noon. She called them something…" He hesitated and shut his eyes, struggling to remember the sound of her voice before all the screaming, "…she called them **Orion's Marks**. But I have no idea what that means."

"Right. I'll be back to re-heal them in a few hours then."

She turned and headed to the library. She had to figure this out.


	3. Tuesday, Trial, and Travel

_**3: Tuesday, Trial, and Travel**_

A week had passed without major event. Hermione quizzically noted that she still hadn't stopped bleeding, but overlooked it in the face of bigger things. She still hadn't discovered the meaning of "Orion's Marks," nor had she been able to keep them healed shut and not bleeding for more than a few hours at a time. To add to her list, due to Draco's unstable condition, she had to stay with him all the time. He could be fine one minute, then burning with fever and bleeding everywhere the next. She'd tried every magical means to break his persistent recurring fever, but nothing worked. She then moved on to Muggle medicine, but none of that worked either. It was upon Molly's suggestion that she simply put him in an ice bath that had this morning. He'd been moved into the room next to hers upstairs now, seeing as how everyone else was healed and the parlor had been returned to its original state. She came in with his breakfast and morning dose of Skele-Gro—as his shattered kneecap was difficult to heal quickly—to find him completely delirious. When she levitated him down the hall and yelled for Molly to bring ice he'd started to babble and cry out to his mother as if she were in the room. Hermione lowered him into the frigid water and he cried out in pain, Molly smoothed his hair back to calm him and told him over and over that she knew how much it hurt, but that it would make him better. He finally calmed, and Molly left the room, patting Hermione lightly on the shoulder sympathetically.

When his fever broke a half an hour later, he sat bolt upright in the tub staring at her, and then down at himself—fully clothed in a tub with floating ice cubes—and turning the water pink. He had been bleeding, but the breaking of his fever had seemed to stop that as well. Hermione turned around as he got out of the tub, the white shirt transparent and sticking to him, and his trousers no doubt doing something similar. She passed him two big fluffy grey towels and kicked the laundry basket towards him. Hermione could hear the slap sound of wet clothes in the woven reed basket and a deep sigh as she **knew** he was wrapping the warm towel around his waist. Her ability to just **know** things had stopped bothering her at this point; she accepted it, especially since it put her at an advantage recently, **knowing** when someone was coming back to Headquarters, and **knowing** whether or not they were okay or needed her attention. She turned to face him and picked up the basket, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered. When she stood though, she noticed something inside his right wrist, a tiny spot, a flash, something darker than the rest of his skin as he moved. Her head snapped up to his face,

"What's that Malfoy?" She gestured to his wrist while balancing the basket on her opposite hip.

"It's a birthmark if you must know. I dislike it. It's shaped like a virgin moon, always got a laugh out of people to know that I was stamped as a virgin."

She was surprised at his forward answer, but said nothing, just nodded. She had though it pleasing to the eye, the umber tone of the thin shape on his flesh reminding her of cinnamon. She leaned toward him for just a moment to assess his wounds, and then turned away from him. She had put him in Regulus' room, knowing that the clothes already fit him, and it was just down the hall, he could get there and get dressed by himself now that he was awake and lucid. He, and therefore Hermione, had an appointment with the Minister and the High Wizengamot to prove his innocence today. He had demanded an appointment in his letter regarding his parents' bodies, and had also insisted that after he'd proved himself that the Malfoy estate, assets, and accounts in Gringotts be released. She had made an offhand comment about him wanting to go home when he snapped at her,

"It has nothing whatsoever to do with anything so silly as a sentimental notion of '**home**,' Granger, and everything to do with clearing my name, claiming my **inheritance**, and giving my mother a **proper** **burial**."

She had blushed then, embarrassed that she hadn't seen his true purpose, but he had chuckled at the sight of her red cheeks and smirked,

"At least you have the good grace to be embarrassed when you're wrong." He hesitated for a moment, then continued, "Speaking of which, I know you've been buried in the library whenever I'm not **burdening** you, have you found anything about what my…mother mentioned?"

He mentioned his mother with only the slightest hesitation, she noticed. She knew he was trying hard to deal with it, she could hear his sobs in the middle of the night when he thought everyone was asleep. She was impressed that he was able to put up a normal front during the day, she certainly couldn't; not even after all of Moody's training was she that controlled. Only during battle, and work. She could hear herself answering him even though she was barely conscious of speaking,

"Yes and no. One tiny mention of them, they're apparently also called **Belenus'** or **Bel's Bane**. Bel or Belenus is the Celtic god of the dawn, fire, healing, sun worship, and the birth of spring. The holiday Beltaine is named after him. But all it said is that some wizard got them during the Burning Times and subsequent wars. I haven't been able to find anything else yet…But enough of that, you better hurry up and go get dressed or we'll be late for the Minister and his **toads**."

He laughed at her nickname for the Wizengamot, and turned into 'his' room to get dressed. She stood in front of the mirror for a moment, waiting. Then the air changed the slightest bit and she could **tell** he was aiming to impress, dressing his best, so she was going to do the same. It was always easier to intimidate the Ministry when you presented a united front. She pulled on a wine red bra, a white fitted blouse, and a black high-waisted, fitted pencil skirt. She slid into her patent leather high heels, easily making herself three inches taller and looked at her hair for a moment. She slid her wand out if her forearm holster and pointed it at her own head, watching as her curls were magically reined into several braids that twisted around the back of her head into an imitation of the ornate Victorian fashion. She then pulled a long black ribbon out of the closet and it wrapped itself around her head twice and then wove into the braids, crisscrossing and drawing attention to the natural red and gold highlights in her hair. She smirked at her reflection, which twirled and looked supremely confidant within the mirror. She pinched her cheeks lightly, and dabbed a tiny bit of a dark berry-colored lipstick on, satisfied with how she looked. She stepped out into the hall, unfortunately bumping directly into Draco's chest and being slightly flustered for a moment afterwards. He was standing there in what looked like a black Muggle fitted suit, with his cloak thrown lazily over his shoulders. The silver infinity snake clasps shone in the dim light of the hallway, and he shook his head slightly to move his hair out of his eyes. He smirked, looked her up and down, and spoke as if avoiding giving her a compliment,

"You clean up well Granger." He coughed and blustered for a moment, then returned to the subject in a clipped tone, he was preparing for this,

"Well shall we get on with the **toads** Granger?"

She smirked, and headed downstairs in front of him…and was a little shocked to **know** that he was staring at her butt and her legs in her skirt as she walked down the stairs. He offered her his arm at the door, but she realized she was going to have to apparate them there, he wasn't well enough. They popped up in a Muggle park across from a bright red Muggle phone booth, which Hermione gestured to. It was the visitor's entrance to the Ministry, but he looked at her as if she had three heads,

"Why didn't we just Floo in?" She let out a barked laugh that caught him off guard for a moment, he had no idea that that kind of bitterness existed inside her. He'd always assumed that life was all sunshine and butterflies for Gryffindor's Golden Girl.

"One: why risk messing up our clothes?!..."she hesitated, "And Two: Headquarters is not on the Ministry's Floo Network."

He let a tiny 'ah' sound as they stepped out of the fake phone booth lift and into the Ministry lobby. She was cracking her knuckles again, as she always did to ready herself for something, and then twisted her wrist to crack it and chuckled at the face Draco made at the noise. He winced as if it was his body making that abhorrent sound,

"Human wrists are not supposed to make that sound, nor are they supposed to twist at that angle. What in Merlin's name happened to it Granger?"

"Your aunt shattered it—stamped on it with those big boots of hers—it never healed correctly. That happened during a **particularly nasty** meeting of ours over a year ago, but she did give me the idea to go out and buy big black boots to wear in battle—and she got her comeuppance, so I can't complain that the bones click. Also, it tickles me to see the faces people make when they hear it. Harry especially, he gets queasy, he hates it."

She had answered in such a matter-of-fact tone, implying it was long past, and she wasn't angry about it anymore, but the smirk that snuck onto her face at the word 'comeuppance' led Draco to believe the petite, well dressed young woman next to him could be completely deadly. He believed it, to look at her expression now.

"What did you do, 'Avada' her?"

She looked at him, her eyebrows raised, as they continued walking, heading for the downward stairs and the trial rooms,

"No. You **were** there; didn't you see what I did?"

"The battle at my house? I honestly don't remember much of that night Granger."

"Oh." Right. He'd been hysterical over his mother's **dead body** on the floor, "I…returned a little favor she gave me, and then hit her with Medusa's Curse and a Bombarda."

Much to her surprise, he laughed out loud as they reached the door to the Wizengamot,

"You turned Aunt Bella," he hissed out her name in obvious spite, "to stone, and then **blew her up**! In my ballroom, in front of me no less, and I **missed** it!"

Then his tone got suddenly serious and his shoulders slumped a little in disappointment,

"What a **horrible waste** of an excellent opportunity for a laugh."

Hermione found herself covering her mouth to quiet her giggles as he opened the door and gestured her to go in first—like a gentleman. She smoothed her skirt and collected herself before heading in, aware of him following right behind her. The Minister and the Wizengamot were up above them in their amphitheatre seats, truly looking like actual toads from her and Draco's position in the court room. An Auror entered with a vial of Veritaserum, and Hermione seated herself to watch. She was here as Draco's Mediwitch, and secretly as his Order escort, and was not needed for the proceedings. She found herself assessing the face of each and every toad, entirely ignoring their questioning of Draco.

She was vaguely aware of the passage of time and she remembers seeing Draco roll up his shirt sleeves at some point, and then the toads were shuffling papers and wiggling in their seats uncomfortably for a while. Draco signed a few things, and he rolled up a few parchments to take with him. He gestured to her, and she shot one last nasty look at the collection of foul amphibians before sashaying out the door. She could feel several sets of eyes on her hips and ass, but the only sensation of eyes that she recognized was Draco watching her approach him at the exit. He was watching her with a look of scientific observation, as if noticing something and then looking closer to make sure—he'd been looking at her feet. She assumed he was watching her walk in the tall heels, but when he spoke he addressed something else on her foot,

"Is that a tattoo on your right foot, Granger?"

"Yes."

Instead of making some remark about her having a tattoo, he skipped to the next seemingly obvious question,

"What is it of? I mean, I can see that it's a pattern of stars, but what is it?"

She sat on a bench in the lobby and removed the shoe, turning her foot so he could see the entire thing—a collection of 21 stars, of varying sizes—and then told him,

"It's the constellation Orion. It was always my favorite story of all the Greek myths, so I got this. Then later, I learned all sorts of wonderful things about Orion's astrological position and patterns, and I liked my tattoo even more."

She put her shoe back on and stood, holding her hand out to him to shake before they parted ways, but he looked at her hand as if confused. He turned instead and offered his arm again,

"Would you mind popping to the Manor with me for a bit? There are a few things I'd like to pick up."

"You're not going to stay there?"

"It doesn't seem to be a prudent decision at this point, no, seeing as how it must be safer to be closer to a Healer if I'm going to be intermittently dying all the time; as well as the fact that if I'm to be accepted and function in your Order I **should** probably be around all the time to do my part. There's also the fact that the clean up effort is not quite finished yet—there was an excess of broken stone in the ballroom that was confusing the House Elves—they thought the house was crumbling and have spent the last week looking for the damage. I shall have to tell them it's only Bellatrix and to split up the rock and bury it in different places, just to be safe. Plus, while I'm gathering my things, you can peruse the Malfoy library for something on my injuries."

"Now you're just playing to my fancies, you ought to be **ashamed** of yourself."

"Not if it works," He laughed easily, and she suddenly found herself awestruck at the thought that it seemed suspiciously like Draco was **flirting with her** and she was flirting **back**, but he continued easily, "There's also the fact that I cannot return to your—and hopefully mine soon—beloved Headquarters, without your help."

She made a sound dangerously close to a snort and accepted his offered arm, as they left the Ministry and turned down the Muggle street looking for a good place to apparate to the Manor. They turned down a dark alley and he guided her close to the shadowed walls before they appear suddenly in the library—second floor—and Hermione was amazed to find it a circular two story room with ladders and spiraling stairs that opened to a veranda. The ceiling was glass, letting in all the bright sunshine of this August afternoon. He informed her curtly that the entire collection was in alphabetical order and 'could she please keep it that way' and swept out of the room to gather whatever it was he wanted—she presumed his own clothes and other personal things. She picked up a stray piece of parchment and scribbled keywords to help her query, using a simple household incantation to help her find what she was looking for:

_Orion's Marks_

_Bel's/Belenus' Bane_

_Ancient magic_

_Virgin moon marking_

_Light/dawn/fire_

_Burning Times_

_War_

She crumpled it in her fist, concentrating hard on the keywords and whispered,

"_**Quæro reperio voco, Quæro reperio voco, Quæro reperio voco**_." She watched as books zoomed off the shelves and assorted themselves into piles by keywords, and she pointed her wand at the empty spaces the tomes had left behind and conjured glass orbs to fill their slots. She wanted to be able to put them away properly later. As the volumes settled, she released the ball of parchment from her grasp and tossed it into the fire to end the spell. Draco reentered, finding her neat piles of random books more than a little perplexing, and impressed by her method of marking the open spaces in his perfectly alphabetized library, but not at all surprised when she asked him if she could take these back to 'Headquarters' to better inspect their contents. He nodded, and she shrunk them and placed them in her cloak pocket as she apparated them to the steps of Grimmauld Place, and ushered him in as soon as the building had sprung up from between it's Muggle neighbors. His mouth had been hanging open just the tiniest amount, but she'd giggled slightly at the sight and he'd clanked it shut immediately. Once inside, she settled in the parlor, removing her heels and lounging on a chaise to read. He leaned back heavily in a wingback chair and wiggled himself firmly into its softness for an afternoon nap. He was sure she'd tell him all about what she'd found when he woke up.


	4. Dinner

_**4: Dinner**_

She hadn't completely understood what she'd read, but she didn't like it either. She had grabbed the books and gone up to her room, stripping off her clothes and sliding under her covers. She had redecorated the room to a certain extent; her pale butter yellow sheets and the large sable fur blanket that she pulled up to her chin were seemingly a surprising choice. Everyone who'd seen her room had commented, but her response was usually something along the lines of '_were you expecting Gryffindor red and yellow?_' That usually shut them up. She let out a deep sigh and drifted off to sleep. She'd become strangely exhausted while reading—almost fell asleep in her book—something she hadn't done since her first year at Hogwarts when she was still adjusting to the workload. She needed to rest.

Draco awoke downstairs to find Lupin napping on the chaise that Granger had been occupying and shrugged. If she'd disappeared, there were some things he could do to get on the good side of the Order members. He pulled two shrunken crates out of his pocket and headed into the kitchen. He set them on the table and aimed an '_**Engorgio!**_' at them. He was glad to have Granger return his wand this morning—he felt useless without it—but he was not about to admit that to **anyone**. When the Weasley matriarch came in a few moments later to find him emptying the contents of the crates onto the table, she laughed,

"What are you doing in my kitchen boy?"

He could tell by her tone that despite her teasing, she was curious as to what he was up to, chuckling at her familiar acknowledgement of him as if she was his own mother,

"Commandeering it ma'am—now **shoo**."

He listened to her laugh, and watched as she sat down instead,

"I'm sorry if this comes off the wrong way lad, but I'd like to see a Malfoy **cook**."

He nodded, smirking, understanding her perception of him and how the image of him making dinner might amuse her. He found himself acting as if he were educating her, showing her every ingredient and enjoying her praise as he went about his work. He had an entire Order to feed after all.

Hermione woke suddenly, ravenously hungry, smelling something that made her mouth water. **Roast lamb**—she knew it—not because of her intuition of late, but because lamb was a favorite of hers. She threw on the silver dress she usually slept in and scurried down the stairs and straight into the kitchen, but what she saw there didn't make any sense. Molly was sitting at the table, where several things were chopped up and in disarray, two shabby wooden crates thrown on the floor next to the table, and Malfoy in front of the stove. Malfoy. Cooking. She burst out laughing, loud, boisterous happy laughter—a sound she hadn't made in months—maybe a year. Malfoy and Molly both turned, Molly's eye's shining with amusement and Malfoy's glinting with just the tiniest hint of annoyance. He snarled a tiny bit as he responded to her outburst,

"Ha-Ha. Yes, the pure-blood Slytherin can cook. Laugh all you like," gesturing in mock anger towards Molly, who was holding back her percussive giggles, "The both of you are right foul, you know that?"

He turned back to stirring the soup and muttering darkly to himself, but definitely loud enough so they could hear,

"Mocking a man who's just trying to make a meal and cheer everyone up. This place is so bloody depressing, but **No**—of course not—can't **possibly** make dinner for everyone without being **bloody laughed at**!"

Molly was the first to speak up and mollify him, Hermione still trying to stop the cascade of giggles pouring from her throat,

"Draco, dear, keep going, it's going to be fantastic, it smell wonderful! Ignore Hermione; she's a war-embittered **harpy**."

These words, instead of making Hermione angry, sent her into a fresh fit of laughter that had her bent in two and shaking, and Draco turned to look quizzically at Mrs. Weasley, both curious and amused. The older woman stood and whispered conspiratorially to him,

"It's been a long time since she's had a good laugh; I think that's why she can't stop herself now. Don't take offence. She's not actually laughing at you anymore, she's just laughing—well, to laugh. I haven't heard her sound like **that** in well over a year."

He nodded, understanding now. Granger's life over the past year had probably not been as innocent or carefree as he'd formerly imagined. So instead of getting angry at her for laughing at him, he decided to set her to work,

"Granger, set the dining room table, will you? And tell everyone dinner will be ready soon…Oh, and there's six courses, so tell everyone to wear loose trousers."

Her laughter stopped abruptly as she stood up and stared at him, open-mouthed. He chuckled at this and continued,

"You make a very unattractive fish, Granger…Well? Don't just stand there **gaping**, go tell everyone!"

She turned and left the room, still a little aghast, and he turned to Molly and spoke in a mock aristocratic voice that sounded as though someone had put a cork in his nose,

"Now, Mrs. Weasley, would you care to help me with the third course?"

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy, it would be my pleasure."

Hermione found herself standing in the foyer staring at her wand for a moment before she concentrated hard on the message she was about to send to the entire Order via Patronus,

_"__**D.M. has made dinner…Six courses…roast lamb is one of them…He says everyone should wear loose trousers…It'll be ready soon…Come home**__."_

She always coded the messages a little bit in case it was intercepted somewhere along the line, so she said the message to herself one more time and then aimed at the door—'_**Expecto Patronum!**_" Then she headed into the dining room and shot and '_**Accio dishes!**_" into the kitchen, amused that she heard a shout of indignation as the dishes no doubt shot out of the cabinets. She pulled a dark gold satin tablecloth from the sidebar and charmed it longer and wider to cover the full length of the table magically extended to seat the entire Order. The dishes flew to the table and stacked themselves up, and she moved about setting places and conjuring extra chairs. There would be close to fifty people here tonight, she'd invited the entire Order, not thinking until now that he might not have made enough food for them all. She rushed back into the kitchen,

"You did mean the whole Order when you said 'everyone,' didn't you, Malfoy?"

Whereas her question was a little frenzied, afraid that she'd made a mistake, his answer was perfectly calm,

"Yes, of course, Granger…now the question is…do you think I should do a second dessert course, round the total up to seven?"

Her mouth was open again, but this time, Molly reached over and tapped it shut for her. Hermione was too busy being confused by him to answer, instead questioning him,

"Where, when, why, and how did you learn to cook anyway?"

He laughed before he replied, never surprised when she started to demand answers,

"My mother always assumed I'd move into our summer house after school, the closest thing to a bachelor's flat as I would ever come in her mind. She supplied me with a House Elf, but knowing that I might kill it out of frustration one day; she endeavored to teach me to cook. The problem with that is that she **can't** cook, only bake. So she hired a tutor for me—who taught me everything I know about cooking—and a few other things."

He coughed for a moment and turned back to whatever he was writing, but she seemed satisfied enough with his answer to leave the room. But Hermione had fled the room for the hall where she silently let tears flow down her face. He'd referred to his mother in the present tense, as if she was standing in the kitchen with him, and it had been a sharp pain in Hermione's chest. She didn't want him to see her cry over his mother, thinking that she might not have the right to in front of him, and she did not want to bring his attention to the fact that he'd said it that way.

It was a few moments before she could head back into the kitchen, where she set herself about charming a substantial stack of cloth napkins into bearing everyone's names and setting them about the table. She gathered all the glasses and coffee mugs from the kitchen on the dining room table and transfigured them all into crystal red wine goblets in one go. Malfoy and Molly entered carrying dishes that Malfoy also charmed into silver dishware, some complete with ornate covers and handles. He nodded and hummed in approval of her changes to the mismatched and shabby cup collection, and they each picked a side of the table and transformed the flatware and silverware to match. As Hermione was adjusting the silverware at one place setting, Draco began to stare at the walls of the room and cast a silent spell at the wall, but nothing happened.

"Damn it Granger, this house is difficult."

She appraised him quizzically,

"What do you mean Malfoy?"

"It won't let me change the wall color."

She smirked, and informed him that the late Mrs. Black had cast some kind of charm against any magical alteration of her house or its décor, and that it was the main cause for the house feeling dismal, creepy, and depressing. His eyebrows rose a fraction when she told him that she's redecorated her room, but that she had to do it all without magic, but he said nothing in response. Instead he tried to change subjects,

"Granger, I know you were reading all afternoon, did you find anything?"

She seemed to freeze for a moment, but then she nodded and spoke quietly,

"I don't quite understand it all yet, and the only mention is still brief. I'll tell you as much as I can later," she smirked and seemed to look in the direction of the front door,

"Your **cousin** is here."

He seemed shocked, and stalked into the hall to spot Tonks coming in through the front door, although he supposed that he shouldn't have been expecting one of his brutish cousins from his father's side. Her hair was an exceptionally bright lime green today, and Hermione came out to greet her with a full hug, and laughed,

"Have a frustrating day at the Ministry today Tonks?" recognizing the color of the older woman's unhappiness as manifested in her appearance. Tonks laughed this off and turned to Draco, extending a hand forward,

"Wotcher cousin, I never thought we'd have a chance to meet. It's nice to run int' you here though."

He accepted her hand, but instead of just shaking it, he pulled her into a loose hug, then stepped back, and explained his suddenly demonstrative behavior,

"…Always fascinated with the disposed part of the family, and I always wanted to meet you."

The rest of the Order began rolling in, hanging up coats haphazardly and Draco rushed back into the kitchen to finish, and Hermione guessed, to hide for a little while. Having to face all of them when his contact had been limited to her, Molly and his Godfather for the past week would be overwhelming, especially considering several of them didn't like the idea of him. He must have set out everything, because Molly emerged from the kitchen to inform them all that dinner was on the table, and that the courses would change as soon you finished them. Everyone hurried in and found their seats, marveling at the decadent appearance of the room compared to its usual drab furnishings and the time-beaten table.

Draco was surprised to find that Hermione had seated him across from her—Molly on his left, Severus to his right. She had insulated him in the center of the long table with people that he had been close to for this time and had thought about whether or not he would be uncomfortable or overwhelmed. He would never admit his discomfort or his quaking nerves, hoping desperately that this meal would convince the vast number of Order numbers that he was in fact serious about wanting to be here and help. He would do anything they asked of him if it meant going against Voldemort and his forces—his father included—in order to revenge his mother, her complete ruin, and his own lost childhood. He was determined.

Dinner indeed was a massive success, many gasps and disbelieving glances cast around the room at the mention that Draco had actually cooked with his own hands, not even using magic or forcing one of his House Elves to cook. But the expansive selection of appetizers, rich meats, a rich red wine apparently a vintage from the family vineyard in Provençal, and the four whole roast lambs did well to ease the minds of many Order members. Draco Malfoy eating at the table of The Order of Phoenix was an odd enough thought to most, but to see him physically contributing was stunning. They all knew he had been brought in under Hermione's care, and that she had insisted that he remain there—a vital asset to their plans for the Final Battle—as soon as he was healed he could help them with information, much as his Godfather still did. Hermione had told none of the other Order members of his wounds and fevers, thinking that the mysterious marks were better kept secret until she knew better what they meant. Not even Severus had seen them; he thought Draco's fevers were because of the injury to his leg and Hermione's resulting surgery.

She was not willing to make him vulnerable in this new place, she knew that he could be essential to their victory, and she knew that he was human. She certainly was not going to be the reason for any added suffering of his. She justified this to herself by claiming in her mind that he was still her patient and it was her responsibility to heal his present ills and shield him from future harm. But there was a nagging voice in the back of her mind that reminded her of their recent flirtatious exchanges and the feeling that pulled her to him even when he didn't need her help. It had started since she'd seen him in that ballroom, his weakness and strength in that night had suddenly snapped into a compulsion to near him all the time. Something she had read tonight had seemed like a warning in her brain tonight, almost causing a physical twitch, but she hadn't been able to put together the obscure, vague references with her feelings or recent events. She was thinking about how to breech the subject with him later this evening when his voice drew her out of her thoughtful haze;

"…I'd like to participate of course. Anything I can do to lead to the downfall of Voldemort, my father, and the rest of that monstrous company, I will."

He was speaking to Shacklebolt, the large black wizard flinching a bit at those words as did Hermione, and all those within hearing range. Draco looked around at the stricken faces, and then turned to Hermione, questioning her earnestly,

"What? What did I say that has everyone so shit-stricken?"

Hermione coughed a little, shaking her head at his word choice before answering him,

"Um…Malfoy, your father is already dead, since the battle at your…house."

"What? Who-?" he never finished the sentence as Hermione's mouth fell open,

"You don't remember."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He didn't remember. He had passed out immediately afterwards, but she realized that he didn't remember doing it at all, that he hadn't even done it necessarily on purpose, it was an emotional sweep of magic much like the powerful, but accidental, reactions of wizarding children before starting school. When Hermione though about it for just a second more, she knew for a fact that Harry still had these reactions if one worked him up enough. Draco had been so distraught that his magic and his feelings had taken over, and he was not aware of it at all.

When she spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper,

"Draco, are you done with your dessert?"

"Yes Granger, but that's inconsequential, tell me what you know!"

His temper was rising, and his words were getting short and clipped in tone, so she stood calmly and headed for the door, she gestured with her finger for him to follow her,

"We need to talk," She turned to the room and spoke in a tone that was above contestation but still managed to be soft and unassuming,

"Perhaps since Malfoy made such a wonderful meal, some of you could handle the dishes and returning things to their normal state?"

Then she walked out of the room, her silver dress flowing gently around her feet as he followed her upstairs, the swirling curls at the end of her braid only drawing his attention to the sensual curve and sway of her hips as she walked quietly up the stairs. He found himself transfixed and even his anger and confusion was held off for a moment by the sight of that rounded part of her level with his face and knowing that only that soft fabric was between him and her bare flesh. He suddenly realized that this was Granger—shaking the thought violently from his head—and sighed with relief as those completely insane thoughts were wiped away by clear, understandable anger.

She could tell he was positively fuming behind her as she led him upstairs, the paintings on the walls of the narrow hallway were shaking and vibrating against the wall as they passed, Hermione was close enough to feel the vibration of his anger in her feet on the floor, but ignored it and walked into her room. He seemed to fault for a moment at the door, halting and looking around, before following her inside. She waved at a hand and he felt the hum of wards going up behind him. She waved another absent hand around the room and whispered a quick '_**Silencio!**_' before turning and seating herself on her bed, which he noticed were furbished entirely in black fur blankets. He wouldn't have expected something quite so opulent from someone as pointedly practical as Granger—and as usual of late she seemed to read his mind—and spoke while gesturing that he could seat himself in the tall wingback chair by the fireplace, or next to her. He headed for the chair, not quite comfortable with the implications of sitting on Granger's bed, especially since he was more interested in what she had to say than entertaining anymore psychotic ideas about her body. When she began to speak in a quiet, retrospective whisper, it was as if all other sound was sucked from the room, and all he could hear was every intake of her breath, and the subtle sound of her tongue wetting her lips every sentence or so. It was obvious that she was nervous about telling her recollection of things, and he knew that the story would no doubt be unpleasant to hear, but he needed to know. He found himself staring at her mouth, and the articulations of her lips forming words and sentences that would no doubt hurt him,

"When I drove Bellatrix into the ballroom, you were on the floor. You were on your knees, shielding your mother's body, and shooting hexes at everyone in sight. But not many of them hit any mark. It was if you couldn't see to aim, you were simply throwing them out in to the air out of anger. I was, for the time being, paying more attention to your aunt, and concentrating on repaying her for her hate and injury to me. My only conscious thought was revenge, but I seemed strangely aware of everyone else that night, and have been since, as if I could see and know everyone's actions and feelings around me. I knew you were in great pain, screaming—if you want to call it that—you sounded more like a wounded animal. It's a sound I may never be able to describe, but it got my attention…"

She wanted him to understand her own feelings that night for some unknown reason, so she revealed everything to him,

"I stunned Bellatrix, pulled out my knife and approached her, returning something she had given me, a wound that never healed with magic, only Muggle stitches which I was forced to give myself a year ago. You see, the night my parents were killed, she captured me and was torturing me—it was the night she broke my wrist, and three of my ribs, and the two wounds of which I speak. One of them is easy enough to hide, and didn't change my life so much, but I returned the other, more visible one to her while she was stunned. Then I released her,"

Draco let out a tiny gasp at this, knowing it to be a dangerous and deadly tactic when dealing with his late aunt to anger her and then let her go—but Hermione continued as if she hadn't heard it,

"And cast my final charms in her direction. I took a small moment to enjoy my victory, but then my eyes fell on you. Moody had just chased your father into the room and it almost looked like Moody was going to win when Mulciber climbed in the window and started towards you. You stood and hit him with three '_**Crucio!**_' and Lucius hit Moody with three '_**Sectumsempra!**_" It all happened so fast that when Mulciber rushed you. He fucked up your leg, as you know, by stomping on it. When you fell to the ground, and let out this shout. Then—and this is merely my best educated guess—you let out a wave of magic much like children's accidental magic, induced from extreme emotional duress and rage. Trust me, the sound you made could **only** be described as rage. It was a wave; literally, it flooded the room, bright lime green, and then Lucius and Mulciber both fell stone dead to the ground. You killed them both. It was like you sent and 'Avada' out at them from your body. Then you passed out, and I transported you here to heal you. It's funny actually," she laughed quietly as she picked up a fist size chunk of pale grey stone off her bedside table and ran her finger along a strange slice along its curve, "I turned a piece of Bellatrix into a Portkey to get you here. I didn't even mean to…but I think I rather enjoy having an actual trophy."

He struggled to speak for a moment, knowing that he had been to the Ministry to claim his inheritance and succeeded only because Lucius was dead, but no one had told him. He had already known that the woman in front of him had killed, probably several times, before taking down Bellatrix. It just struck him with sudden intensity that he was parentless by his own hands, but they hadn't put him in prison, only because it hadn't been conducted through his wand. Hermione was fidgeting, waiting for his angry response, digging her fingernails into her palms to bring her to a crystal clear focus. Draco took note of it, but he found himself staring more readily at her tattooed foot as he continued to think. He was silent for nigh on five minutes, slowly coming to accept everything she'd said, before he replied in an almost imperceptible hoarse whisper,

"Granger, I have a few questions if you'd be so kind as to clarify some vague points."

She nodded, knowing that her attempt to shield herself from his inevitable questions was futile, straightened up; preparing herself.

"Feel free Malfoy."

"Moody died, yes? Wasn't he your personal mentor? That's what they said around the house, that he had taken you and trained you into a rather formidable warrior…"

"Yes, Alastor Moody bled to death. And yes, he was my mentor and confidant for the last year. He is the only reason I'm still here."

Her tone was hard, she refused to give any more detail than that—she would not reveal all her past weakness to Malfoy.

"And I killed my father and that dog Mulciber."

This was not a question, but she knew he would ask one soon, so offered no reply.

"Granger, what were the two wounds that Bellatrix gave you that could make you so driven to kill her?"

Hermione growled for a moment, knowing this would come from him too eventually. She tugged down one shoulder of her silver dress to reveal the long ugly scar that ran from her collarbone around to her shoulder blade. In the past year, it had lost it's angry redness, but she could see that the pale pink of the swirled, puffed and angry scar tissue still made Draco's mouth hang open for a moment before she hissed angrily through her clenched jaw,

"I'd rather not show you the other, if you don't mind."

He nodded, blushing a deep vermillion, and turned his face away. He knew that this wound had been inflicted using Dark Magic, they were called Hate Scars, but he had never seen one personally. The wound is filled with a person's hate for their victim and they are always supposed to fester and ache, never healing properly, and their ugliness is cursed to repulse people. He could admit that it was a horrible wound, ugly even, but it took on a look of heroism on Granger—the deep twisted marks, both seen and unseen— distinguished her in his mind as far from repulsive, but rather glorified.

He knew it was probably an odd way to consider marred skin like that, but he did—she had been tortured by a truly evil woman, fought against the vilest man in the wizarding world, and yet she lived to continue fighting and to defeat her former captor. He turned back towards her and pulled the collar of her dress back up over her shoulder, avoiding her eyes. He ignored the flash of heat in his fingertips as it brushed the delicate skin of her bicep below the scar, hoping that none of his shock was given away on his face.

"I didn't know it would upset you, or I wouldn't have asked Granger. **I'm** **sorry**…" He seemed to notice this slip up and continued quickly, "that she did that to you."

He found himself suddenly flustered, wanting to say more, but afraid to give away his compassion in saying anything more.

Would it be too telling to admit that he thought she carried it well, if she hated it so obviously? Would it be too much to say that he thought it made her look formidable and that finally her tenacity showed on the outside? Would he then stumble into admitting that he'd been looking appreciatively at her body earlier? Or that he was distracted by her at the Ministry this morning? Why was he thinking like this at all?

He shook his head slightly as if trying to throw this train of self-doubt from his mind and returned to facing her. She was sitting still, apparently calm, but her eyes seemed to hold back an anger that he didn't understand as she took in his face. He spoke quietly, sensing that his tone might quake if he tried any louder,

"Could you please tell me about what you've found so far? Maybe that would help the situation…"

She let out a sound suspiciously close to a snort, and stared him directly in the eyes—something she had never done before—before opening her mouth,

"How're your Latin skills, Malfoy?"

"Well enough."

She picked up the topmost book of the stack on her bedside table and unceremoniously deposited the ancient tome in his lap,

"Page 1037, third paragraph," she said while swiftly exiting the room, her dress sweeping the floor behind her—anger and confusion boiling under her skin.


	5. 5 Manifestation

_5: Manifestation_

He sat and read, horrified at the text in his lap—concerning his ailments—their manifestation on his body, what they supposedly meant, and the ramifications of fulfilling the prophecy that seemed intertwined with this knowledge. _Belenus' Bane, the prophetic marks of war—the symbolic god chosen by the Earth and Her Mysteries—he can only heal with the salvation of his people, or else be sacrificed for their salvation._ As if that wasn't troubling enough, Draco struggled to translate the next passage, and when he did, it left him even more distressed than before. _The god incarnate can only stem his own pain and reach completion through The Sacred Marriage with his counterpart: the war goddess Morrighan in her mortal form. She too suffers before the Union, her moon blood ever-flowing. Morrighan is his soul mate and will be known to him by his celestial form, the hunter's mark, upon her body. She will chose him equally as he discovers her._ He pulled the ancient tome closer to get a better look at the next passage; the parchment stained an odd brown and faded with age. _It is only after their joining are they both capable of leading the war to victory—without one another they will both die from their dolors, and all hope of victory will be lost. Once joined however, their Union is the foundation from which salvation and freedom takes flight_.

Well how in bloody hell was he supposed to find one girl suffering like him out of all the wizarding world of women?! Was he supposed to just go around asking women extremely personal questions, like whether or not they had had a never-ending period lately, or whether or not they had the mark of Orion on their bodies somewhere?

And then it hit him like the brick wall behind The Leaky Cauldron. The image of Orion's stars tattooed on Granger's right foot, and he remembered how his stomach had lurched just the tiniest amount when he first saw it. He suddenly recalled the hot flush his skin had taken on while she was caring for him and the ripples of goose bumps that had always been left in the wake of each touch. Another feeling came to him suddenly, a feeling of knowing exactly where she was and somehow feeling her apprehension like an itch under his own skin…it was as if he was suddenly as aware of her body as his own, and no one else really mattered. **Bloody Fuck**.

Hermione was downstairs in the parlor, watching the sunset trying desperately to fight through the steel grey clouds when suddenly she knew—he knew. He had figured it out. Her stomach turned at the knowledge and some part of her recognized it as nerves, fear, and the tiniest bit of anticipation. **Bloody Fuck**.

Draco suddenly couldn't fight the urge, he trotted down to the parlor, and without speaking he walked over to her on the window seat. He found himself enjoying the slight electric shock when he stood there and took her hand. Thankfully, no one else was in the room to witness what would have been an awkward exchange, or really lack of exchange. They simply looked at each other and **knew**. Had he thought to continue, or speak, he wouldn't have known what to say and honestly, neither would she. He moved slightly closer, looking away from her face for a moment to look out at the sunset as she had been, and he could feel a relaxation that ran deep sweep over him.

Hermione didn't, couldn't speak, she could only look at his face and address the situation in her mind. She knew that she had found him handsome when she'd first seen him at school, but his behavior back then had sullied almost all of her attraction away. Now that this prophecy, or whatever it was, had made her look twice at him, she could no longer deny him as a possibility—but then, what she'd read seemed fairly definitive—was this some kind of forced relationship? Was this just an obligation to him, or was he actually attracted to her as well? And was it meant to only be physical and symbolic, The Sacred Marriage in its essential form—or could it mean something deeper?

Draco finally found his tongue functional and broke the silence, sensing her mind flooded with questions and feeling compelled to answer her sudden worries:

"I felt it before too," he whispered hesitantly, "I had always tried to repress it because…well…because of who we both were…it would have been unseemly in more ways than one had I admitted it, especially to you." He hadn't meant to say that much. **Piss**. Once he'd opened his mouth, it was like Veritaserum, he was soldiering far past what he'd meant to say without the ability to really hold back or stop. He wondered in vain if it was just a part of the prophecy that he was so drawn to her, or if the prophecy was just a well-timed excuse to admit to himself that he always had been smitten. She must have sensed this, because she smiled enigmatically at him and a hint of a blush rode across her freckled cheeks and nose. The sight of it caused his stomach to flip and his body warmed to the urge of kissing the blushed softness under her eyes, but as he leaned forward, Snape and Remus chose to stride into the parlor and look suspiciously at both of their former students on the precipice of a kiss. Draco straightened up at the thought of an audience and he and Hermione both experienced the normal flooding of household noise back into their ears as if they had been stopped up before.

Hermione stood slowly, almost gliding along after their mutual realization, and not letting go of Draco's hand, led him from the parlor back upstairs. They shared a small chuckle in the hallway when they realized each other's hesitation over which room to enter. Draco steered her then towards her own room, remembering that his was in disarray at the moment, not releasing her hand when she walked through the door first, looking back over her shoulder at him shyly. He took distinct notice when her stomach erupted into butterflies, she was nervous about expectations or whether or not any of this was real considering the prophecy and how it was affecting them both physically. Draco didn't want to just rush in—he felt that the book had meant more than just a physical act in the words "sacred marriage"—so when he sat on the edge of her bed, he merely nodded for her to sit next to him. Her tangible nervousness ebbed slightly, but it was clear that neither of them knew what to do next. He acted mostly out of instinct when he picked up her book of magical children's tales from her bedside table and scooted up to lean against her headboard. He opened Beetle the Bard and she followed his lead, scooting up next to him and tucking her bare feet under the covers to fight off the evening chill. Her body was warm next to his, soft and feminine in way, but also solid and telling of her life as a soldier for the Order.

Hermione held his open hand between them as he read to her aloud something so simple and ridiculously comforting as children's tales of magic and morality. She found herself dozing after two or three stories and she rested her temple on his shoulder in a sleepy comfortable haze, before giving in to her dreaming. Draco kept reading, not sure if she would wake if he stopped speaking, until he too gave into exhaustion and comfort.

When Hermione woke to the sounds of birds chirping, a blue pre-dawn light filtering in through the window, the warmth of Draco's body next to her tempting her back to sleep. She had moved completely under the covers in her sleep, and Draco had moved to parallel her, but remained above the heavy fur blanket. It was so chaste considering their situation that she couldn't repress the tiny snort and giggle that escaped her, making Draco hum slightly and shift. He had rolled off his side onto his back and thrown an arm across her pillow, which she saw as a blatant opportunity to pull her body next to him and lay her head between his chest and the crook of his arm, where she found a perfect fit. He made another appreciative grumble in his sleep and pulled her closer to the length of his body. Being held like this and warm from the heat of him, she fell quickly back into an easy sleep, ignoring the house waking up around them.

Snape and Remus were the first down to the kitchen after Molly, not speaking before they had first gotten a cup of strong black tea each. Mrs. Weasley was humming quietly to herself over a griddle packed with rashers and eggs. The men seemed to be hesitating, somehow willing Molly to leave they room so they could converse more freely, but when it became clear that she would not be absent for some time, Severus' curiosity took over and he addressed Remus as quietly and with as little of his old scorn as possible,

"What do you suppose that was in the parlor last night?"

Remus choked slightly on his most recent sip of Earl Grey, and then he took a moment to consider before answering, sleep still thick in his tone,

"They seem to have come to something. I think they're well suited enough despite the past. They've both grown into very different adults than they were as children and students. Does something have you worried Severus?"

"Not worried, Remus, no. Perhaps I feel more inclined to call it observational interest. I find myself wondering firstly how the others will react, how it will all work out or not, and finally, what affects it may have on the present situation of things…" Remus raised a scarred eyebrow at the last leading comment and spoke a little louder than necessary before he could stop himself,

"I don't follow. He's already changed allegiance. What more affect could it possibly have?" Snape chuckled knowingly for a moment, and paused to consider before telling Remus what he was suspecting…It wasn't surprising really, since the old man had died, Severus found himself thinking more and more like Dumbledore these days, and he knew even the seemingly impossible to be a source of hope, and most likely true considering. He had definitely lost his cynicism concerning prophecies and the powers of Old Magic and the traditional rituals of the Old Religion. Dumbledore had sufficiently proven time and time again that the Old Religion was the source of all modern magic, and that the patterns of power in the Earth could still influence the actions and outcomes of the modern age. Severus peered quickly at Molly to assess whether or not she was listening, and she seemed not to be when he finally spoke up again,

"Remus, you forget your history. You forget the power of the Old Mysteries; Dumbledore would not approve. Perhaps their coming together could have far more to do with that fate of all then you believe. The gods of war and life may not be known to many today, but it is not to say that they have disappeared or lost their potency by any means." Lupin choked on his tea again.

Mrs. Weasley may not normally been much for gossip, but the men were speaking in such vague terms that she couldn't avoid being interested. It took her only moments to figure out that they were discussing Hermione and Malfoy, she'd seen the boy looking at the girl a few days before with an expression that could only be described as repressed hunger. She had hoped, in the years before the war, that Ron would realize Hermione's affections for him and do something about it, eventually make her a member of their family, but Ron seemed more inclined to continue giving that same expression of hunger only to her homemade Battenburg cake. He was a good bay, but sometimes he missed things that others knew to be rather obvious. And anyway, Molly was a mother—she could smell attraction and see nerves when they came into her presence. She hadn't raised seven children and not learned to read the collective emotions of those around her. She sometimes had had trouble with the twins, who tended to hide their discomfort with humor and pranks, but even then, if you lie with a person, you learn what they're trying to hide by how they try to hide it. None of her sons may admit it, but especially while this war raged on, there was more than one occasion when she had comforted them in the kitchen after all others had gone to sleep.

In this moment, she worried about Hermione most, because the young woman had become incredibly closed off after her parents' death, and Moody had always instructed her to some emotion other than grief. Molly would have to pay attention today and try to glean how Hermione, whom she considered a second daughter, felt about the remaining Malfoy. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she almost missed Snape's last musings, but she found herself not fully understanding them when she did hear. She would have to think it over, and possibly discuss it with the portrait of Dumbledore at a later date.

The three in the kitchen fell silent for some time, noise entering the room with Ron and Harry sleepily stomping down the front stairs, drawn down by nothing less than the smell of cooking food. Ron served himself sleepily, and sat with a thud, while Harry poured himself a strong cup of tea and found himself warming his hands on the cup for a few moments before even looking over at the cooking food. He was also looking around the room as if looking for something else when he spoke up,

"Where's Hermione this morning? Isn't she usually the first up after you, Mrs. Weasley?" Remus choked on his tea, and considering the third time's the charm, he set it on the table; he was prepared to have done with it.

Ron took no notice as he plowed through his food, but Harry had definitely marked the reaction of his former professor.


End file.
